grave and sorrowful secrets of her soul; I already saw
myself consoling her, speaking to her of duty, virtue,
resignation. I looked forward to a series of solemn
and touching things.
Instead of all this poesy a frightful dog who barked at my feet and a woman just like others, without brains, without ideas, occupied solely with pleasures, confining her enthusiasm to the Theatre des Varietes and the caressing of her Spy, her Spy! . . . Ha! Ha! Ha! . . . Her Spy whom she loved with the tenderness and devotion of a porter! And on my way I kicked the air, at an imaginary Spy and, imitating Juliette's voice, was saying: "Come, dear! Oh, dear little dog! Oh, my love, my dearest Spy!" Shall I admit it, I also had a grudge against her for not having said a word about my book. That no one spoke about it in ordinary life was almost a matter of indifference to me. But a compliment from her would have delighted me! I would have felt so happy to know that she had been moved by some page, provoked by another, as I hoped she had been. And instead nothing! Not even an allusion! Yet, I remember, 1 had cleverly furnished her with an opportunity for such consideration.
"Decidedly, she is a goose!" I said to myself as I rapped at Lirat's door.
Lirat received me with open arms.
"Ah! my little Mintie!" he exclaimed, "it's very nice of you to come to dine with me. And you have come just in time, I tell you. We are going to have cabbage soup."
He rubbed his hands, and seemed very happy. He wanted to help me remove my overcoat and hat and, dragging me into the small room which served as his parlor, he repeated:
